


touch

by agentmaine



Series: touch and comfort [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentmaine/pseuds/agentmaine
Summary: "It’s… motherly, in instinct. Perhaps overbearing. But he worries. Most of his interactions are fuelled by that, an awful cocktail of the worry and the love (because it’s love, if he’s being honest with himself) and it gives him heartburn and stomach pain and headaches and restless nights. Whoever said that love was beautiful deserves to be hit with a brick, Martin thinks, and hit quite hard for good measure.That’s what loving Jon feels like. Being hit very hard, for good measure."or, a look at martin’s feelings for jon, and the touch he wants.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: touch and comfort [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677190
Comments: 17
Kudos: 194





	touch

Martin has never quite known a want like this – primordial, almost, so instinctive that he can’t begin to shake it and trust him, he’s tried, it just doesn’t work. It’s like an inbuilt function of his anatomy, as if when he began at the institute, first met his asshole of a boss, looked at the eyebags and rigid posture and curt replies, his body rewired itself so that _touch_ is as necessary to his continued functioning as food, water, air.

If that’s the case, Martin has no clue how he’s survived for so long because quite frankly, he doesn’t get much of Jon to himself at all, nowhere near as much as he feels he needs it.

It’s not lust, although… maybe a bit, he’d admit to himself and himself alone because, Christ, those hands – but that isn’t the most of it. If watercooler gossip and Tim’s rumour mill is anything to go by, that’s not Jon’s thing anyway, and that’s fine. Really, genuinely fine. Though that touch would be nice, too nice to focus on, almost, it’s the mundane that’s been slowly killing him like a bit of poison in his cuppa every day, weakening him to a blushing, stuttering mess of _want_.

He thinks that working at the archives is going to kill him one way or another, he’s just not quite sure if death will come via worms / meat / monsters or through the overwhelming pain of this awful, horrendous, unrelenting pining.

It’s ridiculous – really, really, ridiculous. Like a kid in a playground at breaktime, trying to work up the nerve to talk to the boy he fancies, ask if they want to sit together at lunch. He knows he’s too old for this, far too old to have such an overwhelming crush, but that’s like telling the clouds above that it’s too nice for them to rain. There’s just no way it’ll change anything.

Martin likes to think that he’s decent at his job, working with a determination that’s surprisingly undeterred by all of _everything_ that’s trying constantly to ruin his life, kill his friends, all that good stuff. So, for the most part, he tries to let his work remain unaffected. That becomes so much harder, though, when you’re in love with your boss.

(Or, have a crush on, he reminds himself firmly, the L word is a bit too much, too scary, too big. It crosses his mind often, despite all attempts to quell it. It feels like someone just poured lava into his throat.)

Seeing Jon is near unavoidable, most days, through nobody’s fault but his own. The Archivist is something of a recluse and from what he can put together, that seems to be part of the job description, along with all the lovely bonuses of lack of sleep, mania and a quite frankly shitty attitude towards other people. Martin sure does know how to pick them, he thinks, often, feeling rather sorry for himself. But that’s beside the point – the Archivist could easily be left to his own devices but there’s something there that refuses to let that be.

It’s… motherly, in instinct. Perhaps overbearing. But he _worries_. Most of his interactions are fuelled by that, an awful cocktail of the worry and the love (because it’s love, if he’s being honest with himself) and it gives him heartburn and stomach pain and headaches and restless nights. Whoever said that love was beautiful deserves to be hit with a brick, Martin thinks, and hit quite hard for good measure.

That’s what loving Jon feels like. Being hit very hard, for good measure.

Once again, though… it’s not like Martin helps himself, he can admit that.

He comes in, daily, without fail, all to check up on Jon. Stands in his doorway and does a horribly awkward little knock, shuffling his weight from foot to foot, never quite knowing how to hold himself in front of him. One time, he tried leaning against the door frame, as if he were someone with the confidence to pull off a _lean_ and immediately wished the floor would open him up and swallow him whole, even if Jon’s reaction showed no inkling that he paid any mind to it.

He always smiles, awkward, forced, lest he let the real smile behind it come out, the one so full of love and adoration that it knocks him a bit queasy. Always mumbles a greeting, asks some question about Jon’s work, gets some vague answer in return, if he’s lucky. Always follows it up with a stilted, “well, um, I was going to pop the kettle on. Can I get you anything?”

The answer from Jon is always a variation upon a theme – “no, thank you, Martin”, “yes, please, Martin”, in tones that range from plainly angry to spaced out to touching on what could, potentially, be grouped under the ‘happy’ category.

Martin always makes the tea, roots around in their little kitchen area for the nicest biscuits he can find – spends far too long looking for Jon’s favourites, has even popped to the shop during his hour off to stock up on them and went so far as to act surprised, say an “ _oh_ , I wonder who got more Hobnobs, must be your lucky day!” as he handed them over.

The only thing that made that worse is the fact that Melanie and Daisy absolutely noticed, a mirror image of raised eyebrows staring at him, looking altogether too pleased with themselves with just the smallest hint of pity that was enough to ruin his week.

He doesn’t need pity – Martin is a big boy, he can sit in his own emotions, reap the repercussions of the feelings that got planted at some point and have completely overgrown his garden. It’s _fine_. He won’t say it doesn’t hurt, because he’s not going to lie to himself _that_ much, but he doesn’t need anyone’s pity but his own.

Those tea runs, though, the ones he makes for the whole office, all lead up to one moment that kills him dead on the daily. When he walks into Jon’s office, overcrowded with paper, stepping over piles of sheets scattered haphazardly across the floor, ignoring the ever-present whirring of a tape recorder and hands Jon his cup of tea, their hands brush for just a moment. And it _kills_ him.

The touch, the tiniest press of contact between them, sends sparks through his whole body, originating at his hand and shooting upwards, spreading out over every inch of him, exploding in his chest in the form of heart palpitations, much like a firework that fizzles away into falling shards of colour.

On days where Jon is in a better mood, Martin finds himself enjoying a double dose of murder, and he can’t even be sarcastic about the use of the word _enjoy_ because he does enjoy it, he really does. He thinks back to one in particular, far too often for his own liking.

***

He’d wandered in with the cup of tea, found Jon squinting at illegible handwriting, holding it up to the light as if a secret message was to appear. Though, really, Martin wouldn’t put that past the realm of possibility here. Much to the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach, though, Jon was too preoccupied to take the tea from his hands, so Martin placed it carefully on an old placemat, once again avoiding piles of paper as to not ruin whatever mental system of organisation Jon had going on. If there even was one.

“Here you go.” He said, cheerful, stealing a long look at Jon while the man was preoccupied, taking in the shocks of white and grey amongst otherwise jet black hair, down loose today and falling past his shoulders in unfairly beautiful waves for someone who most likely has not brushed it in upwards of a week. “What are you looking at, there?”

“Hm?” Jon started, as if he hadn’t even heard for a moment, before his ears took their time to catch up to reality. “Oh, this. Some… interesting statement, almost impossible to read, though. There’s just this one word I cannot make out – I asked the others for help, earlier, and they weren’t much use either.”

“Ah,” Martin had said, trying to disguise his disappointment at not being one of the _others_ Jon had turned to, feeling that awful pang of jealousy and possessiveness, as always directed to someone who isn’t his to claim. “Well, that’s less than ideal. I could give it a try?”

Jon had sucked his lip between his teeth then, a nick in his brow for a moment before letting out a sigh, shrugging almost defeatedly. “I don’t see what harm it could do.”

He handed Martin the statement, the paper crumpled and weathered with age, and Martin had squinted at it, tipping his glasses to the bridge of his nose and focusing on each sporadic, frantic curl of ink on the page. After a long minute, in which Jon had quietly munched on his biscuit (much to Martin’s relief, he had looked so gaunt and frail), Martin spoke up with what little confidence he could muster. “Incandescent, I believe.”

“Oh.” Jon replied, sounding equal measures shocked and impressed as he took the statement back. A tiny moment of contact, soft skin touching, something that Martin distinctly remembers _could_ have been unnecessary. “Oh, I think I see what you mean. Yes, that makes sense. Thank you, Martin… I appreciate that.”

Jon had flashed him a smile then, small, tired, grateful, _beautiful,_ and it had nearly knocked him over. It was all Martin could do to nod and smiles and trip over his words, stammering that he needed to get back to his own work. He’d walked to his office, sat down in his old, uncomfortable swivel chair, put his face in his hands and kicked his legs under the table for a solid minute before he regained composure.

 _Incandescent -_ emitting light as a result of being heated. Martin remembers how acutely on the nose that had felt. The blush that grew across his cheeks was definitely heated and Martin would have placed money on the fact that the smile on his face was practically glowing.

Call it breadcrumbs, but Martin was very hungry, and the words _I appreciate_ coming from Jon were practically a feast.

***

There are other moments of contact, of touch, that leave his mind racing around the racetrack of _what if’s_ and _was that what I think’s_ and _surely that wasn’t an accident_. They’re combined with the moments of _want_ , of _I could reach out and touch him_ , of _he’s so close and so far_ and all the other never-ending torturous thoughts that make work a nightmare, even more so than it already is.

There are times when they pass in the corridor, plenty of room for two people, and Jon still turns his body slightly as he passes to bump into Martin’s shoulder, often not even offering an apology or a look his way before continuing on. Those times, Martin finds it increasingly hard not to imagine pushing Jon against the wall and just… _kissing_ him, long and slow and then shaking the man and asking _what the hell, Jon?_

Instead, he apologises.

Ridiculous, really. He’s not even the one who bumped into Jon in the first place.

There are times when Martin finds Jon asleep at his desk, not one bit peaceful even in his slumber, bent over uncomfortably and often twitching fitfully, mumbling what seems to be nonsense but Martin has the uncomfortable feeling that the words make sense to Jon, something he’s hiding from the rest of them, a burden he refuses to share – be that through stupid self-endangerment and protection of the others, or Jon’s lack of trust and rampant paranoia returning, Martin doesn’t know.

In those times, when it’s already well past their standard working hours, Martin will often wake him, nervous no matter how many times it happens. He knocks on the door to see if it will wake him – it almost never does. He wanders over to the desk, taps it lightly, seeing if that will do the trick. Sometimes it does. Other times, he has to touch Jon, ever so lightly. He places a large hand on Jon’s back, between the shoulder blades, not so much shaking him, instead rubbing the knots evidently there lightly until he wakes up.

He always wakes with a fright, yelling. The first time, Martin had yelled just as much, falling back onto his arse and bruising it rather frightfully. He thought it was funny, Jon not so much. But as the times that Martin’s acted as Jon’s personal alarm clock grow in numbers past the countable, Martin’s grown accustomed to this.

Sometimes, or, really, most of the time, it both breaks and rebuilds his heart to see the wild fear in Jon’s eyes in that first moment of consciousness only slip away when he realises that it’s Martin who’s waking him. They never speak about it afterwards, but Martin will stay knelt next to him, thumb rubbing across Jon’s back until the man’s breathing evens and he blinks himself fully into consciousness.

Sometimes Jon will give him this tiny, sad smile, mumble a “thank you, Martin,” in a voice so gentle that it wouldn’t rustle the grass.

It hurts Martin, every time. He thinks Jon might have been right about him being a ghost – he might just become one sooner or later, the way things are going.

***

It’s unfair to pretend that he’s always enamoured with Jon in a sense of unwavering, doting love.

Sometimes the love is both unwavering and rather pissed off, Martin will have everyone know. He’s not just some idiot who can’t see that Jon makes bad decisions, Jon gets himself hurt, Jon is mean to other people. He’s… well, he’s just the idiot who loves him wholeheartedly, regardless.

He’ll do his best to keep Jon in line, giving him a glare when he snaps too much, occasionally biting back. When Jon responded rudely to a simple suggestion of going outside for some air when the man looked like he hadn’t slept or seen sunlight in about four days, Martin had responded with an equally scolding, “oh, fine, suit yourself then, Jon, it’s not as if I’m just trying to be some – some fucking help, for you.”

He had slammed the door on his way out, too, for good measure.

But anger has never been his strong suit, he was well aware of that. It appeared like a fireball, burning bright and bold for a moment before fizzling away into nothing once more. The anger that had bubbled and boiled inside him in a moment ago subsided and melted into sadness, as if the curtains were pulled back abruptly and he was made to feel how he _really_ feels, which, admittedly, is usually just _sad_.

He’d made his way to his desk and put his face in his hands again, fighting back the awful stinging of tears behind his eyes, mumbling into his hands, voice muffled and almost nonsensical as he let out a string of curses directed to Jon.

Really, how hard is it to be _nice_ to someone who cares about you?

It would almost be enough to push him away, make himself take a step back, assess the situation. But Jon isn’t stupid – he can recognise when he goes too far sometimes, apparently, and sometimes chooses to act on it. This was one of those moments – Jon’s emotional competency showing in the fact that he gave Martin fifteen minutes to cool off before he followed to his office, a sheepish look on his face, cup of tea in one hand and Martin’s favourite biscuits in the other.

Biscuits that Martin happened to know weren’t in the kitchen earlier but are stocked in the little one-stop-shop next door.

He fought back a smile, and it was hard, with Jon looking so _regretful_ , but Martin's very clearly tear-reddened eyes and cheeks spoke for him to show Jon that he was not best pleased.

It had been Jon’s turn, then, to do the awkward weight shift in the doorway. “Can… I come in? I brought tea.”

Martin had wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his old, faded jumper, then, part out of necessity and part to drive the point home, before nodding and saying, “sure, if you’re done being like _that._ ”

Jon had sighed as he walked in, rattling in his chest, a real, genuine sigh of disappointment. “I know, I know.” He offered the tea out to Martin and placed the biscuits onto the desk. “A peace offering.”

Taking the mug – Martin noticed that it’s Jon’s, one he bought him in years gone by, some stupid Secret Santa present – Martin offers a slight smile. “It only counts as an apology if you change how you act, you know. I know this is hard on you, Jon, but you’re not the only person here.”

“I know…” Jon mumbled, trailing off, looking to the side before forcing himself to meet Martin’s eyes. “I shouldn’t act like that; I know you have my best intentions at heart. It’s just… it’s so hard, Martin. So, so tiring. And complex. There’s so much, I don’t know where to start, and I’ve not been feeling myself and… God, I’m sorry, this is meant to be me apologising, not making it the Jon Show again.”

Martin shook his head quick, curls moving over his eyes with the vigour of it. “No, no, go on.” He stopped to pat the side of his desk, moving the packet of biscuits, opening them and offering one up to Jon. “Sit down. Have a biscuit. Chat to me about it.”

As if on autopilot, Jon had followed his instructions, perching awkwardly on the edge of Martin’s desk, sat facing him, before relaxing slightly and sighing again, running a hand through his hair. “You’re too nice to me, sometimes, Martin.”

“I know,” Martin smiled, shrugging and taking a sip from his cup of tea. “I think everyone other than you knows that, sometimes. ‘S’alright, though, I don’t mind – at least one person in this building has to not hate your guts.”

Jon had laughed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re not wrong. Thank you, though. For being that for me.”

The lump in Martin’s throat was almost enough to suffocate him and swallowing it didn’t appear to do anything, so he let it sit there, as much of a lump as he felt – heavy, awkward, scared. “O-of course, yeah. It’s alright.”

Jon had looked at him then, long, serious, hesitant and weighty with indecision before reaching over and taking Martin’s empty hand in his own. Long, thin fingers intertwining with his own, a soft squeeze, silence for a long moment. “Really. Thank you, Martin. It’s… been hard. Very hard. And I don’t think it’s going to get any easier.”

All Martin could do was nod dumbly, his hands acting on their own accord to brush his thumb across the back of Jon’s hand, part reassuring and part selfishly mapping the feeling of this into his mind, into his skin, tucking it away in the back of his mind. His words found their way out of his mouth on their own. “I know.” He’s not sure how, but he _did_ know, already had the sense that things were going to get worse before they got better. “I… I won’t go anywhere, though. Someone needs to keep you alive.”

Jon chuckled, low in his throat. “I suppose that’s your job?”

“Well, I don’t think Tim’s quite up to it, is he?” Martin had retorted, eyes stinging again, heart either beating very fast or not at all.

“No, I think not.” Jon nodded, at least in part serious.

In his mind, Martin had kissed him, then. Stood up, put himself in between Jon’s legs, held his face and kissed him with everything he felt – the anger, the love, the worry, the fear – god, the fear, so much of it, the fear of the unknown and of losing everyone and most of all, more than anything, losing him. It had hit him, then, that his greatest fear was losing Jon - not the monsters and awful occurrences he read about on the daily, not his own death. But losing Jon. If he were a braver man, he would have kissed him and, if he were hopeful about it, he'd have felt Jon kiss him back, hands gripping onto that jumper that he had once said wasn’t _suitable for work_ , feel him melt against him and lose all of that tension and fear and stress, if only for a moment.

Martin Blackwood, though, is not quite brave enough for that.

So, of course, he didn’t kiss him.

He just… sat there, in silence, hand in hand. A simple touch. A simple squeeze, brush of thumbs, sad, scared smiles shared between them, countless words going unspoken for a very long while.

“You… deal with a lot here, don’t you?” Jon asked after a while, finally breaking that silence, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a sledgehammer.

“Yeah, I suppose I do.” Martin had answered.

Martin thinks back and knows with 100% certainty that they both knew they weren’t just talking about workplace responsibilities.

“Is… is the offer of that walk still on the table?” Jon had asked, timidly.

“Of course. Yeah.” Martin nodded. Smiled, stood up, helped Jon up, too. Left the tea on the table – they both know it was never about that, too. If they held hands walking around the nearby park in the cold, crisp air, if they looked at each other, taking turns in their nervous glancing, neither said anything.

***

And that’s how Martin lives. From day to day, touch to touch, conversation to conversation. It might be unhealthy, it might be pathetic, it might be creepy – maybe not, though, because between everything else falling apart, he’s certain that Jon spends an inordinate amount of what little free time he has not dedicated to whatever wild goose chase he's on chatting to Martin, passing his office coincidentally, somehow, even when heading to a part of the archives in the complete opposite direction.

He has never known a want like this, that’s true. But he’s never known himself to be so _patient_ , either. He realises, somewhere along the line, that he doesn’t mind if he waits a day or a month or an eternity for that next touch, or for the kiss he dreams of far too often, he quite simply doesn’t _care_. He sits in his feelings, the bed he’s made for himself, stays there. Waits, patient. As long as it’ll take, as long as Jon needs.

He’s smart enough to know that he’s not waiting for no reason – despite the doubts that claw at him, wrap around his ankles, threaten to pull him under, drown him, he knows. He knows that there is a _something_ he is waiting for – he just… has to wait for it to reveal itself.

Unrequited love is terrifying. Obviously. It’s also shit. Double obviously. And this isn’t that, not quite. It’s something similar, though, it’s reluctant, unprepared, waiting. It’s simultaneously in the palm of his hand and out of his reach.

Just like Jon, really.

But it’s okay – it’s how he lives, and he’s contented. He was never hard to please, and pleased he is.

Jon doesn’t stop snapping at him, doesn’t stop his mania, can’t stop that, even if he wanted, which Martin thinks he does, most of the time, at least. He doesn’t stop pushing himself past the point of exhaustion, doesn’t stop pushing him away. But he makes improvements, where he can. He tries, and what more can you ask for, really?

He squeezes Martin’s hand when he can, when their hands brush. He puts a hand on Martin’s forearm as they pass in the corridor, flashes him a weary smile. He places an unnecessary hand on the small of Martin’s back when he moves past him, sometimes. When he’s awoken by Martin from a nightmare, he lets himself relax by hugging him, pressing his face against another of Martins’ jumper, breathing in, letting himself be small. On rare occasions when they travel together, he’ll rest his head on Martin’s shoulder, sometimes, light, careful, and more than anything, exhausted.

It keeps killing Martin, undoubtedly. It wrecks him, wrecks his heart, leaves him empty and aching when his hand isn’t holding Jon’s.

But it reassures him, too.

He’s never had a want quite like this, but he’s never been _needed_ in return. And that’s what this is, he realises, although it remains unspoken.

That touch that he needs so badly?

Jon needs it, too.

**Author's Note:**

> jonmartin has consumed my last remaining free braincell and i am OBSESSED WITH THE PINING
> 
> i'm over @goldciiffs on twitter! please come say hi i need TMA friends :)


End file.
